


this isn't a brave face

by intothecrater (orphan_account)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, Coping, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Raphael Santiago, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Soft Boys, and whatnot, breathing is useful during panic attacks, going to the ocean, kinda goes oop whoever talks talks at the end, let me have this, metaphors and other human tendencies, multi-lingual raphael santiago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22460065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/intothecrater
Summary: "I, I know," He shook harder, words squeezed through clenched teeth. "Sorry, it's just," Raphael heard the grind of canines, "it’s just habit."He watched him for a while longer, nursing something like sympathy for how badly Simon’s body lapsed, almost jet-lagged in the hugeness of biological difference. Simon could never be warm again, for all the motions his body seemed to remember.
Relationships: Simon Lewis & Raphael Santiago, Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago
Comments: 3
Kudos: 97





	this isn't a brave face

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is self-indulgent as fuck! i got into this pairing bc of sheer youtube algorithms, so i haven't watched the show and don't plan to. consequently, this prob doesn't adhere to canon all that much, but think of it as you'd like.

i. 

_you, living proof?_

The meeting ended with promises of a renewed alliance, about as brittle as the smile on her face, the one he must’ve mirrored. Raphael left feeling out of place, thoughts pinned to the bars that kept Camille detained and the threat of her outside supporters, still at large, when his foot caught on something hard and--it hurt a little, so--inhuman. 

He looked down at Simon, hunched into himself at the bottom of the stairs. Shaking. "What are you doing?" 

"Shivering," Simon hissed, and he was, uncontrollably.

Raphael was aware of the temperature only by the state of bystanders, their warm-blooded bodies swallowed by scarves and hoods and other anti-cold casings. He looked down at Simon, who had two arms around himself. Mundane-like. "You know you don't have to." 

"I, I know," He shook harder, words squeezed through clenched teeth. "Sorry, it's just," Raphael heard the grind of canines, "it’s just habit."

He watched him for a while longer, nursing something like sympathy for how badly Simon’s body lapsed, almost jet-lagged in the hugeness of biological difference. Simon could never be warm again, for all the motions his body seemed to remember. 

Eventually, Raphael slipped out of his jacket--new, purchased to replace the one Simon ripped with that antique knife--and dropped it over Simon’s head. 

“Um,” Simon peered out at him from underneath, a spark of surprise lit up there. Raphael wanted to roll his eyes. He probably did, but Simon didn’t say anything, just stared with his pair of brown eyes, so Raphael stepped down and slid into the empty space beside him. The staircase was narrow enough to press their thighs together. Simon’s knee jerked against his and Raphael felt the movement. Like old teaspoons, knocking together.

“Thanks,” Simon said, finally, adjusting Raphael’s jacket over his shoulders. His knuckles chafed red, as red as their skin allowed; guilt and sin and whatever.

Raphael hummed in answer. They stayed like that for a while longer, until the tremors faded back and Simon gave a small breath, an easy heave of the chest. Their knees finally stopped touching. 

  
  
ii. _you said okay_

The last time he breathed was in 1967, when the light of his mother's house on fire climbed high into the sky. He had pulled a match free from its box and imagined how visceral fire felt, the rock of the sun split open and revealed, untouchable. The match caught and he stood in the midst of it, as the walls creaked with heat and the white-hot tips of fire spread across the floor like wings coming apart.

He felt nothing as his clothes burned away and melded to his skin, melted remains singed into ash. 

It was then he breathed. Opened his nostrils and parted his mouth, taking in all that was not his. Smoke burned into his eyes, and it didn’t hurt--not really, not like his prayers did. His chest moved; he looked down to watch it, a small stutter once, twice. Something shifted in him, as if he had a heart. He tasted nothing on the back of his tongue, but even that tasted like everything that could never be again.

What did coffee taste like, again?

A cup of the brown liquid was scattered across the pelt carpet, staining all the way to the foot of the couch. His hands clutched at Simon's cheeks. 

"Simon," Raphael said, a warning. His hands held, claws blunted only a little. The face in his grip shook, twisted up and afraid.

"I can't," Simon said, as if he wanted to turn back time instead of turning into whatever this thing was. (Whatever he was, so human still it hurt to look at him.) "I can't," he said again, and the only human thing about it was his snarl, mouth pulled taut as if a scar reopened. His eyes bled. A wounded sound came from the strands of his throat, and Raphael felt it in his bones. 

His hands softened so that he could scrape them to the back of Simon's neck and pull.

"Breathe," Raphael murmured where his lips pressed into Simon’s hair, dark and messy, sunken with sweat. Beneath his hands, Simon jerked and the scent of blood rose into the air. Raphael’s palms grew dense with it. Baby, he thought. He said something else, forgot if it was in English or Spanish or that bit of Russian he picked up and never let go. 

Another dry heave. Raphael wore a dark cashmere jacket he could care less about dirtying, the treks of Simon’s tears already soaked into the hems of his sleeves. 

Raphael didn’t repeat himself. But his fingers traced irregular patterns over the ridges of Simon’s bent back, chest rising and falling and making way.

iii. _fresh bones_

_the crack in curtains_

“It's worthless trying to listen for it.” His neck craned downward. "We don't have one anymore."

Under the darkness and the mound of blankets: “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve been dead for longer than you, fledgling.” 

“You obviously haven’t heard of the concept of seashells.”

A sigh, and within it a roll of the eyes. “Air. Sound waves generated with all those molecules bouncing about in all that emptiness. It's not really the ocean you hear.”

“Exactly.” A head poked out, then a hand, scrubbed over listless eyes. “That’s what I mean: all we are is husks, empty space, not endless vacuums. Space is a vacuum. So that means we can still make sound, here," a long finger started once against his chest, "even if it's so quiet it might as well be dead. But if we listened hard enough,”

Something sharp, stung. “Shut up, Simon.”

Something bright, like determination. “But if we listened hard enough, we can still hear it, right? The trace of a heartbeat.”

  
  


iv. 

"It's only the west coast. My treat, for finally doing something like this," a thumb swiped over his right cheek, the bruise already gone. His smile felt new and old, as if it were sitting at the edge of his lips for years now. Raphael didn't wait for a response when he turned away. " _Hasta luego._ " 

The sound of Simon's voice found him anyway. Something appropriately disbelieving, like: "We just trained for five straight hours, and you want to walk there?" 

Raphael slowed before he even caught sight of the cliffs and the pale stretch of beach. The pulse of waves found him at the five-mile mark, and it grew until it swelled, pure and resonant. Above, the moon hung high and shone with the same light for his past and all his future centuries. This and the ocean and his clan and the cross against his neck; all that he ever will have. All that he ever will need. 

He had already stripped off his socks and shoes and tucked his feet into the shallow water by the time Simon arrived. "Finally," Raphael said, and raised his arms to feel the wind at his sides, the grind of wet sand at his toes. He almost felt cool.

Simon bristled. "Thanks for waiting," he said, but didn't say more. They both felt the ocean's lull. Time was different here, finite and thin and bearable with the way the moon shined for them.

Eventually, Raphael turned, moved to tap two fingers over Simon's chest. The heart and other useless things. "Get undressed," he said. Simon blinked, then startled and took a step back, and Raphael watched, eyebrow raised. "We're swimming."

Simon's eyes stayed wide. "Are you serious? It's the middle of winter and I'm _not_ stripping in front of you, for G-" He choked.

Raphael almost wanted to laugh. He stepped around Simon, hand moving to his back. “Don’t be ridiculous,” and he shoved, feeling his fangs against his bottom lip as he smiled. “You can’t feel the cold and you don’t even need to _breathe_. And since when were you ever concerned with committing faux pas?” 

"It's still-" Simon's retort died away when the ocean's waves collided again with the shore. Like a roar, the water stretched and spat into the air.

"Oh," he said. He stopped pushing back against Raphael's hand. "Oh," Simon said again, quieter, and Raphael pulled away.

They made it in, eventually. They walked barefoot across the wet sand into the dip of the sea, jacket and shirts curled up at shore. Raphael dove in first, and Simon followed. His cross came off his skin, afloat underwater, and Raphael stared out into the darkness where even the minute swaying of seaweed could not escape his eye. His collarbone didn't burn. A gentle wave, the feeling of a hand passing over his neck, and he realized that it was Simon, trying to get his attention.

Simon, with cheeks blown out to their fullest. It was so innocent, the look on his face and the roundness of his cheeks. As if any of it were necessary. Baby, Raphael thought, before he reached over and slapped the air out of them.

His hands closed around Simon's face and held as he jerked back on instinct, legs lashing out. Breathe, Raphael wanted to say to the fear in Simon's face, but they were sinking farther into the darkness, into the ocean's depths. (And they didn't need to breathe.

And they didn't need to say a thing.)

Raphael drew them closer together, the faint pressure of the water around them, and slid their foreheads into alignment. 

Like this, he thought, watching Simon finally watch him, and breathed out in a long sigh. Air bubbles left him in streams; through the translucent gaps, he saw Simon's awe as clearly as it would have been in the gaze of the moon. 

He let go, then. And Simon smiled as if he understood.

**Author's Note:**

> post-fic they hang out in the midnight zone of the ocean


End file.
